He was no stranger to walking
long distances. Once he had walked for half a day on a
broken ankle when his horse had thrown him, clenching his
teeth on every lightning flash of pain that had ridden a
path up his leg and still he had walked on, never faltering.
He had walked to the House of Healing on his own feet and
had ignored the scolding he received for it while he was
bandaged. He had endured pain time and again in his life
without complaint, and fresh humiliation drew to the surface
like blood from a wound that this simple thing would finally
break the limits of his endurance.
Dark eyes were watching him through lowered lashes,
thoughtful and knowing, and Boromir firmed his steps,
determined not to be bested by this Man, by the soft chafe
of metal between his legs.
He had first seen it on Aragorn, had been utterly shocked by
the shimmer of metal wrapped around tender flesh, gleaming
silvery white in the light from the fingernail sliver of the
moon. Three luminous rings held him in a cold embrace and
yet Boromir had been more scandalized that anyone would
think to use mithril in such a manner.
Aragorn had smiled, his obvious amusement at Boromir's
outrage stinging further and he had touched the rings
lightly, sliding a fingertip over their liquid glow like one
might test the sharpness of a blade.
"Lovely, is it not?" Uncertain as to whether Aragorn was
speaking of the rings or himself, Boromir had found himself
nodding regardless, only to still in shock as Aragorn added
in soft, pleasant tones, "I believe it would be lovely on
you as well. You shall wear it tomorrow while we travel."
Sharp refusals had burned on his tongue like the taste of
ashes, utterly offended that Aragorn would attempt to breech
their unspoken agreements so carelessly. These matters did
not continue into the light of day, not by a single touch or
word, and did Aragorn attempt to make it otherwise...it
could not be allowed. Enough of his dignity had already been
lost to this man, sacrificed each night at the last crimson
touch of the Sun. More would be unacceptable.
Yet before he could release his bitter flood of insults,
Aragorn had stepped closer, leaning against Boromir like one
too weak to stand and he had whispered in sweet, mocking
submission, "If you do, I'll let you take me."
His voice became the cruelest of caresses, touching Boromir
in a fashion that he could not prevent and he had been
betrayed yet again by the rush of lust pooling between his
legs, silvery heat that matched the rings Aragorn was
carefully sliding from his body. It had left him trembling,
his pride once again tattered with little more than words.
And though he never murmured words of agreement, his silence
was as telling as permission when he did not refuse the
gentle touches of fingertips; the warmed metal rings
carefully eased and settled in their proper places.
They had remained since that moment, cupping him in their
unyielding grip, and yet he walked, unable to stop his
thoughts from considering his reward though it only pained
him further. He would have Aragorn on his knees this night,
his wrists bound as he was taken, as brutally or tenderly as
Boromir might wish. This night would be his night to hear
blissfully sweet words of pleading.
Cradled in a King's ransom of mithril, Boromir walked on,
both warmed and agonized by his thoughts of revenge.
-Finis-
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